
Hemingway's women and men know that we have an interval, and then our place knows us no more. Our one chance is to pack that interval with the multiplied fruit of conciousness, with the solipsistic truths of perception and sensation. What survives time's ravages in A Farewell to arms is precisely Hemingway's textually embodied knowledge that art alone apprehends the moments of perception and sensation, and so betows upon them their privileged status. New Book